Friday, February 22, 2008

I thought I'd got away with it. But yesterday, well, it hit me with a vengeance. Felt like bursting into tears all day. Or worse. But I didn't, because I was in an office with a couple of other people, and I didn't want them to start thinking that I was even more insane than they already think I am (oh dear, listen to me, I've turned into...I'm mad, me, bonkers, crazy. Go on, ask me to do something zany for you. I could pull a funny face if you like. Rude noise, anyone? Shall I drop me trousers?) and, well, I'm a big bloke and big blokes don't cry, as Robert Smith almost once sang. I'm currently extremely keen to accept hugs from M and smiles from little Finn and would probably even welcome patronising pats on the head from complete strangers. Ah well.

Back in 2005 I was doing a few bits and pieces - workshops, that kind of thing - on the largest council estate in Europe. One of the young people asked me what I did when I wasn't doing workshops, that kind of thing. "I'm a playwright." One of my so-called colleagues, a so-called 'artist', so-called because we were paid pro-rata according to a mysterious Arts Council sliding scale of artistry, quickly chipped in, in a most sarcastic manner, "you can't call yourself a playwright!" This has obviously been playing on my mind for three years. The good news is that, some three years later, I can shout out "I'm a playwright" and not feel like a fraud. Hurrah!